


The Finder

by pagetbrewster



Category: Rocky Horror Picture Show, Shock Treatment (1981)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-02 07:56:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5240615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagetbrewster/pseuds/pagetbrewster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What seems like apathy and what always looks like the first impression, may just not be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before anybody might receive anything from this, simply know I was inspired by another work I read on here. The author's name is @agirlnamedtruth, and her story is called "The Best She Could Hope For", and this is something you can read here.
> 
> Thank you all who may enjoy reading this, my gay heart couldn't resist.

The city’s always looked down on her.

This isn’t a selfish statement, by any means, rather true. They detest the pink hair that falls in her eyes, judge the length of her clothes, and her clothes in general. They’re placid, sad people, and she’s known them first-hand every day of her life.

She couldn’t survive without them. She thinks this with such surefire that it nearly stops her in her tracks. She’s not going anywhere, but she’s moving, and she supposes that’s all that matters. Destinations with aforethought are sometimes letdowns.

She deftly sees holes in the sidewalk, dodging them perfectly despite the dark. She’s determined, wherever she’s going, and when she gets there, she’ll come up with a new story.

However, when some old pickup truck slows on the road beside her, hesitation sticks in her throat, as opposed to the story. 

Nevertheless, upon seeing the man, she gets in.

He starts the truck without a word, and it isn’t until the buildings alongside them thin, when he speaks.

“You don’t know who I am.” 

She settles back in the seat. “I suppose if you were a murderer, you’d have come up with a ruse.”

“And what makes you think that?”

“You’d have doubted yourself, doubted that I wouldn’t jump out, and you’d try harder to keep me in. You’re quiet, un-reassuring, and that means you’ve got good intentions and a place to be.”

“There’s no such thing as a confident murderer?”

“Only a psychopath would have any lack in inhibition. I’ve never seen a psychopath with dead roses on his dash.”

The man chuckles, running his tongue over his lips. “You don’t even know where I’m going.”

“Of course I don’t, but you do.”

“You make poor decisions for a wise girl.”

She smirks, but doesn’t let him see, but clicks her tongue, and lets him hear. “I suppose that’s living.”

It’s hours later when he rolls into a driveway, exceptionally long but fitting for an exceptionally large house. It’s more of a castle really, and there’s a huge yard with no plants. Bare trees make the sky seem darker than it is, and there’s no light that turns on when they come up to the door.

He knows his way around the dark.

They slip into what must be a kitchen, and the silence is ominously a fresh breath of air.

He turns on his heels, gazing perfectly down to her.

“Go to bed. It’s late. There’s a room around the corner; you can go there. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“You will”, she whispers as he walks away. “You will.” 

+++

 

She did see him, Frank, the next morning, and the days following. The adventurous glint in his eye soon became simply a part of him, but it never grew old. She reveled in the arm-length decency in which he grew to treat her in the day, and how he’d sneak into her room at night and time wouldn’t matter anymore. 

She’d bite her fingers to keep from waking up the others in the house, whom she grew fond of. There was Riff Raff, a handyman, and Eddie, the boy who came around sometimes. Who truly intrigued her though, was Magenta; this low-voiced, sly domestic. She rarely found matters on which to speak, and sometimes when it was late and she’d have a hell of a time in Frank’s space, Magenta would occupy her bed, reading, only slipping away when she saw her at the door.

Columbia became a woman living for contact, for attention, from Frank. After years of evading the stares of people in the city, of pretending she had to justify her choices, there happened to be a man as crazy as she was. He’d only talk when he knew she needed it, and he had a way with his hands. He never hung around after leaving her breathless though, but it didn’t matter, not when she needed him like she did.

Everything was a dream in the weeks following, until he grew from her and invested his time in other people. Though they were never exclusive, or even beyond him in her bed and then him out the door, she seethed. Eddie started coming around more, and she saw less of Frank, and the time that once held them together before she slept was spent making her eyes adjust to the darkness, alone.

One time when she comes in late, Magenta’s sprawled out on Columbia’s bed, reading. She looks up, then looks back down at the pages.

“I’m here.”

She gazes over the words, not tilting her head up. “I know.”

“Are you gonna go?”

She flicks her eyes up. “Do you want me to leave?”

Columbia sits on the end of the bed, sighing quietly. “No.”

Magenta closes her book, then slides up the pillows. Her eyes are dark, painted black, and she’s thin; Columbia can see how slim her waist is through her maid’s uniform. She plays with a curl at the end of her hair, shifting her legs. She’s quiet, only surveying Columbia’s body.  
She reaches down into her pocket, saying nothing; pulling out a tiny bottle of whiskey. “Drink, if you want.”

Columbia takes the bottle, running her thumbs over the grooves in the glass. She opens her mouth to say something, but finds her words to have run away, and she can’t do anything close to communicating except for making a little sound in the back of her throat, like a whisper.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

Columbia swallows, twisting the cap off and then back on. “Yes I do. Will you stay?”

“I am staying.”

“The night”, Columbia says, her voice catching. She runs her tongue over her bottom lip. “Just humor me for a few hours.”

Magenta lulls her head to the side, looking heavily at her. “How?”

Columbia takes the top off, sipping quietly, closing her eyes as the little fire slid down her throat. She scrapes her teeth together, tipping her head back up. Her voice is thicker with the alcohol, and she manages hoarsely an honest request. “Just stay. I don’t mind.”

Magenta nods, and doesn’t meet her eye. She lifts the covers on the opposite side of her, inviting Columbia to slip in. She gazes at the adjacent wall when Columbia crawls into bed and pulls the sheets up around her head.

The minutes slip away, and Columbia counts Magenta’s breaths. One, two; she can hear the air in Magenta’s lungs like words. She smells like smoke and the ground outside, sweet, like it’s just rained. The alcohol keeps her eyes shut and her better judgment from turning around. She thinks of what Frank said, the first time they’d met: ‘You make poor decisions for a wise girl’. Not this time Frank, not this time.

The environment is overall peaceful, and the tranquility of it sinks into her bones. But in the last couple seconds spent hanging on to consciousness, she hears Magenta say something so quietly she hardly registers it there.

“You don’t have to stay you don’t like sleeping alone.”

+++

The weeks passed idly by. Guests in elaborate costumes came and went, Riff Raff slipped through doors, Frank kicked his boots up and ran his tongue over his lipstick when he wasn’t busy entertaining himself in the lab, and Magenta worked honestly, finding a new use for her time as opposed to avoiding dealing with it. Sometimes Columbia would sit on the counter and watch her clean, hearing her hum songs in low notes. They’d drink together sometimes, as smoking wasn’t exactly compatible with Columbia’s lungs. One time, when they were drunk and staring at the clock in the entryway, and Columbia remembered nothing except the one thing Magenta whispered.

“You must think time goes by so fast. But it doesn’t, Columbia, only what you believe of it.”

They slept in each other’s beds sometimes, when the nightmares left Columbia for good, and she accepted that sometimes she’d be alone. She respected herself, relieved that Frank wasn’t coming around to test her out. She speculated where people had gone, but didn’t dwell, and she grew to be quite the storyteller.

On a night in the middle of October, when the leaves stopped falling as fast as the rain did, Columbia stayed inside. The power was out in some parts of the castle, in parts Frank hadn’t set up emergency lights in. The only glow in Columbia’s room was the numerous candles she’d lit and set on the shelves. She hears the storm outside rage on, learning not to flinch at the thunder.

Magenta slips in, a habit Columbia’s growing fond of. She sits on the end of the bed, a bottle of red nail polish in her hand, and a bottle of wine in the other. She holds them out, asking without the inquiry.

Columbia nods, smiling. “Yeah.”

When Columbia’s nails are the same dark red that Magenta’s are, she grins. “You ought to do this professionally.”

“And leave this paradise? Oh, no”, Magenta says, in her leveled, discreet sarcasm. “There are things to be done.”

Columbia takes a little sip from the bottle, passing it back to Magenta. “How did you come to be here?”

Magenta smiles and scoffs at the memory. “It’s a long story, but one that I’ll tell a little later. Your tale is of more interest.”

Columbia rolls her eyes, giving a little half-grin. “You’ve heard my story a thousand times. But it’s well; regardless of where you’ve been, you’re here now.”

Magenta lulls her dark eyes upward, and it’s then that Columbia feels her hand resting perfectly on her knee. “Perhaps before was better?”

“Do you think that?”

Magenta’s thumb brushes over her leg. “Sometimes.”

“Now?”

She stops thinking, gazing forward, fixed on Columbia’s curious face. “No.” She looks down, smiling. “No.”

Blood races through her veins, and the thoughts in her head are clouding. She can’t work, she can’t solve.

“You people aren’t made to live alone”, Magenta says, resting back, subtly tracing the lines in Columbia’s fishnets with her thumbs.

Columbia lies down on her back, gazing heavily into Magenta’s wandering eyes. Her knee is angled out, so that Magenta’s hand still lies upon it. “So maybe like that; you’re one of us.”

Magenta’s hand travels languidly upward, and Columbia has to fight a shiver, and whispers. “Like that, maybe you want the same things we do.”

Magenta closes her eyes.

Columbia slides her knee upward carefully, fitting between Magenta’s legs.

“You’ve got to tell me.”

Magenta arches her back slightly, opening her eyes. Her pupils are dark, wild, and she tilts her hips forward, tipping her head up once.

Columbia swings her other knee over so that she’s kneeled in front of Magenta’s parted legs. She puts her hands on either of Magenta’s knees, slowly running them down. Magenta lifts up, and Columbia carefully rolls her garters off, handing them off to the side.

With newfound freedom, she bends down, kissing the lower part of her inner thigh, and sliding her lips gently upward. She pushes up Magenta’s dress, curling her fingertips over her pelvis.

And Magenta hisses through her teeth, and rolls her eyes upward, when Columbia places her tongue on her.

Columbia moves through her softly but mercilessly, never slowing, and on the occasion, flicking her eyes upward. When Magenta starts to shift, she wraps her arms around the undersides of her legs.

Magenta tosses her head back, never speaking. Her muscles tighten though, and her fingers soon find Columbia’s hair, stroking down. 

It becomes heated, and Magenta starts quietly seeking air. Her neck strains up and her nails press down into Columbia’s skin, something she ignores. Her breathing quickens, and she makes a sound in the back of her throat, some strangled cry, before she relaxes her chest, and smoothes out Columbia’s bangs.

Columbia runs her hand over the top of Magenta’s leg, and then crawls back onto the pillows. And in lieu of speaking, she counts the crevices in the ceiling. 

Magenta doesn’t change places, but she stretches out her legs, looking above, listening to the thunder.

“I’m from a place away, up in the stars”, she says, her eyes unfocused.

“I don’t mind.”

Magenta rolls her head to the side, her dress still pushed up to her hips. “Earth is so fleeting. Make it matter, Columbia, but you’re not time’s slave. And I’ll help you.”

Columbia blinks. “Find my way?”

Magenta bites her lip, nodding, and looking back up. “In a way.”

Columbia tips her head up in understanding, sliding away, moving to go off the bed.

Magenta reaches her arm out. “No.”

Columbia looks back.

“Please.”

Columbia nods, making back onto the mattress, and lying down next to Magenta’s, craning her neck up like she’s watching Mars.

“There’s no feeling away from here. And for so long this place felt like home. This planet is apathetic, and the people on it crawl over themselves to win. It’s much like it is everywhere else. And the loss, the stitch that makes humans who they are is missing here too. But I’ve smelled your flowers, listened to your rain, read your papers; and I think living is about finding peace, wherever it is, and making the challenge easier on your shoulders.”

Her eyes grow heavy, and her breathing slows. “You’re not much different from me, but you’ve got life, Columbia. Our blood is quite different; make something of you. Anything within your realm of ability ought to be grasped. And don’t forget…don’t forget to breathe once in a while…”

Columbia smiles as she listens to Magenta’s words float away into the room. The lightning cracks once and then goes silent. 

In light of all the events, of everything that could’ve happened and everything that did, the person she found out she was; she whispers.

“You don’t have to say you don’t like sleeping alone.”


	2. Heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't planned on another chapter, much less two, but here I am, and this was a story I couldn't quite let go.

Lights flicker in the corner of her eyes like fireflies in the faulting electricity, but she doesn’t notice a thing.

Her feet don’t make a sound when she scrapes them across the floor. Heavily. She’s dragging herself to the center stage or to the altar; she doesn’t know.

“My sins…my sins…” she’s whispering and this is the first time she’s felt guilt for anything. 

Voices are running in the background but they’re nothing but weighted noise, like curtains sliding across the floors to a close. Scene, scene, but she doesn’t know who wrote the script.

Her knees shake in her boots and she has to keep her fingernails pressed into her palms so she doesn’t say a thing. People are crouched to each other like children to their mother’s skirt, clinging out of fear. They’re insects crawling and so is she, and so is every other damned life on this earth who has the misfortune of taking a gamble.

She closes her eyes, and feels the surging rush of blood through her veins, and hears the heartbeat under her skin. She could’ve run, run far away but cowardice isn’t limited to people. She could get a thousand miles away and live in this exact second, when there are bodies in this room but not every one of them is breathing.

“Her sins…her sins…”

That woman didn’t have any sins, the one she’s almost silently rambling about. The thought itself makes her pace. She didn’t have any sins, or any ones worth noting above the occasional lie, because, if anyone’s, her words celebrated the light above her whether she was talking about it or singing.

She had this song she would sing sometimes, with her forearms resting on the windowsill and her eyes scanning every flower in the yard. Magenta can almost hear it now:

“The sawgrass springs up when the rain comes down.  
A boy scurries along because ‘the wheat won’t pick itself’.  
Two lights on and a store don’t quite make a town,  
In the bottom of the mill pond; may he find himself.”

 

Columbia.

She remembers when she first heard it, when Columbia had crawled out of bed with her, her shirt unbuttoned and hanging off her shoulder; the curve of her spine and the moonlight illuminating every dip in her skin. Magenta had listened; entranced, wishing it to never end.

Act Two, and Magenta remembers things from years ago burning like yesterday’s smoke onto her skin. The rain still falls like it did when she’d first felt it. Likewise, Columbia seemed the same as the first person to ever slip the shirt off her back and kiss where she was exposed. Time means nothing when Magenta can’t tell which way is up.

She feels her knees scraping against the ground, but she doesn’t know where she’s going. Her tights are tearing but her destination; whoever lies ten feet away. And her hands are sliding across the floor; she’s bleeding. She can feel warmth dripping over her knuckles.

Columbia. Columbia is where she’s going.

It’s not Magenta’s blood.

And Magenta’s not crawling anymore. She’s cradling Columbia’s head in the crook of her elbow. Her thumb’s pressing against the veins in her wrist, and she’s waiting.

It’s the beat that never comes.

“Get up, we have places to be.”

She runs her nails against Columbia’s jaw. “We’re gonna leave soon. Remember the planet? Remember the stars? Remember the place I told you about? It’s all true; you just have to get up. I have clothes for you and they should fit you. You’ll never have to worry about people being mean to you again when you see them from thousands of miles away with me.”

Magenta shakes her. “Come on! We’ll be so far away. Thousands- goddamnit! Just…” She softens, smoothing out her shirt, and with trembling hands she brushes the hair out of Columbia’s eyes. 

Magenta remembers the radio and an old scientist garbling about heaven. He said how everybody lasts forever, but some people’s forever is a little longer than others. There are infinite numbers between Point A and Point B, but there are even more between Point A and Point C.

“Forever is forever, Columbia. Your destiny isn’t better than mine, and it’s not any bigger. I just had more numbers.”

She feels it in her heart.

“I best go now. I’m going home. And you…”

She slides Columbia out of her arms and onto the floor, squeezing her wrist; ultimately, letting her go.

“I didn’t know. The bottom of the mill pond never felt this right.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place a number of years later, where Columbia's found her way back to Denton, intent; with reason for a person she left behind.

“You…”

Columbia can’t stifle the smile that’s on her face, modest as she forces herself to bite down on her lip. She turns around and leans forward on Nation’s desk, her pale arms turned outward in some sort of subconscious display of truth.

“Ansalong.”

“’McKinley’.”

Columbia’s eyes drop down as her teeth hold onto her bottom lip, and she shifts forward, staring at Cosmo’s empty chair. “Neither of these names suits us very well.”

Nation tips her head back in a quick nod, running her tongue over her teeth. “Earth’s a crazy dream.”

“And why do you say that?” Columbia asks, knowing full well, and dropping into the patient’s chair at check-in.

“You’re dead.”

Columbia shakes her head, gripping onto the position she has, the upper hand. “You always preach time, Magenta. But you’ve no concept of it. Maybe it’s eight years from then, or maybe it’s eight years earlier. Time can be transcended, and I know, because you gave me a pretty great trip through it.”

Nation whips out a drawer under her desk, then takes out a cigarette. She shoves it between her teeth, fumbling with the lighter but managing to click it. She tosses the lighter on the desk with a clatter, visibly fighting trembles. She cocks her head to the side, inhales deeply, and nods toward the no-smoking sign. “I won’t tell if you don’t. Get the door, would you?”

Columbia makes a show of deftly sliding her body through the narrow space between her chair and the desk, only sitting when she hears the lock click. “You’ve got quite a gun.”

“Yeah well”, Nation says, letting her eyes drift to the medical posters on the wall. “This is a hell of a day.”

Columbia relaxes into the chair, scraping her thumbnail on her palm. “What’s your real name, ‘Genta?”

“Nation. Yours?”

Columbia shrugs. “Maybe Grace, or Danielle. Something simple; I don’t know. Regardless, Columbia’s prettier; and so’s Nation.”

“How earthly of a name I was given. It suits me I suppose, because hell if I’m going back soon.”

“You loved it there.”

“I know I did. But I get sick of the moon sometimes, when the dark covers everything and it’s like I’m colorblind. And sometimes dancing and singing needs a rest when I’d rather be alone.”

“Are you happier now?”

Nation tips a shoulder up, closing her mouth around the cigarette and inhaling. “Indifferent. Sometimes the light illuminates things I don’t want to see and I can hide in regret. I can gain or lose anything.”

“You’ve got all of time to swim through.”

Nation leans forward, crushing the cigarette gently in the ashtray. “And yet it feels nonsensical when it’s just me.”

+++

 

The days flooded together in one messy collection of hours, and Columbia could hardly decipher what month it is. Much like Magenta’s work ethic at home, she didn’t do over what was expected, and she didn’t expect Columbia to do much more than she did. 

She knew her brother was busy running around and immersing himself in the patient’s affairs, and Nation could care less. She locked herself in the bathroom, smoking a lot more, but pinching her lips together in the same concentrated gaze, and hiked her skirt up the same way she did when she was a domestic. 

Columbia isn’t used to seeing her without her eyes painted so black that her pupils were an aforethought when the common person dared to look into her face too long.

So now they burn a neutral brown at most, but shine fiercely when she focuses. Nation’s coming undone, or at least unraveling the tough façade that Magenta had lived in for all those years. But she’s got the same soul, and the same lowly seeking voice that’ll creep it’s way into the back of Columbia’s mind just when she thinks she’s forgot it all. 

In addition, what Nation knew of childish, growing Columbia was dead.

It hadn’t stopped her from slipping Columbia alcohol and watching her get drunker, and then on one sober night racing her eyes on every inch of Columbia’s face until it disappeared under the hem of her dress.

The silhouette of Nation in her doorway nearly makes Columbia jump out of her shoes.

“You’ve got orientation.”

Columbia refastens her belt. “With Cosmo?”

“No, with me.”

“I’m ready now.”

“We don’t have any patients at the moment, although Bert will change that soon. You just have to show me that you can make a bed and feed people.”

Columbia leans up against the heater, curling her fingers and arching her back into the wall, where she rests. “I’ve done well so far, then?”

Nation nods, scanning the ground.

“You might actually need to help me with the sheets until I can get the hang of them. They’re awfully small for a big mattress.”

“It’s still difficult for me too, and I’ve been here a while.”

Columbia looks up, questioningly.

“Six years”, Nation answers, beginning to toss Columbia’s pillows onto the floor. “Six years.”

Columbia pushes herself off the wall and bends over to take the comforter off the bed. “Time flies.”

“Scientifically, I’d be inclined to disagree with you, but…”

“But, what?”

Nation purses her lips before giving what she thought was a hidden half-smile. “I grow weary of science at times.”

“All that satisfaction…”

“You can’t tell me that sometimes you don’t get tired of the truth.”

Columbia tosses the sheets on the floor, which are promptly scooped up by Nation, who darts out the door and returns with a cart full of new sheets from outside the door. Her hip movement is subtle, but when she’s observed like Columbia watches her, she can see that Nation consciously shut the door.

Columbia doesn’t ask about it.

“No wall-sized photos of boys?”

Columbia shrugs shyly. “I don’t quite fancy boys as much as I used to, to hang their pictures up on the wall.”

Nation smiles as she turns away, unfolding the sheets and motioning for Columbia to take the other end.

She tucks her sides in but the sheets pull too tight and Columbia’s corners come up from under the mattress. The same maneuver simply makes a different side pop undone, and after the third time, Columbia laughs in that same exasperated way people do when they know they shouldn’t get angry. 

“You get up here, then kneel here”, she says, pointing to corresponding places on the bed. “Then I’ll do the same. We should get it then.”

They crawl onto the mattress, and Nation counts down to when they shove the sheets down underneath, successfully.

“I hope you don’t mind that we’re never taking these off again”, Nation says, and Columbia can hear the smile in her voice. 

She smoothes her skirt and turns to slide off the bed when she catches Nation, sitting there on her knees, with empty pillowcases behind her, giving Columbia the same lost, sultry gaze she gave her on the one sober night. The months and years or however the hell long it’s been since the last time Nation fluttered her eyes closed and Columbia could hear her heart pound through her skin slide through spaces in her mind she’d reserved for that person, whoever they are. But she knows now.

“You missed me”, Columbia says, under her breath.

“I don’t miss anyone.”

Columbia adjusts and rocks back on her heels. “Yes you do.”

The flush in Nation’s cheekbones accentuates the fear she’d been swallowing for the last four days.

“And I know. I know because you can’t smile in front of me, because you draw out your words when you speak to me like they won’t end; they can’t end. I know because you only sing when I come around, and you don’t notice you’re doing it. I know your eyes haven’t settled down since I walked into your office for registration, and you have to hide your hands so they won’t shake. I know that you’re scared that you’re not the Magenta I kissed that one night years ago. And I’m not being selfish, or imagining what I can feel from you is spurious. I know.”

Nation has since lowered herself to sit down on top of the pillowcases. Her nails dig into her palms and the blood’s drained away from her face. She’s pale and still and her pulse rockets through the air like she’s in control of herself, but she can’t bear what greets her when the day falls away.

“You don’t have to hide your hands, or your smile; because I missed them both.”  
Nation searches her face for the words stuck behind an apology.

“And you don’t have to be human to feel.”

“How could you be so sure of the truth?” The words tumble out of her mouth.

“Just a notion”, she says, crawling forward, watching Nation’s eyes drop to the buttons on her shirt. “A lucky guess.”

“A lucky guess”, Nation repeats quietly, closing her eyes. “You’re fairly knowledgeable.”

“Maybe”, Columbia whispers into her ear, leaning in to kiss her neck. She feels Nation’s arms sneak under hers to clutch her back; her lengthy fingernails gripping her like a vice. She kisses her once more, letting her lips scrape across Nation’s skin longer than they needed to. 

She doubts. She doubts this, doubts everything because thousands of days leave impressions, and the weight buries itself deeper into her bones the more time passes. She’s guessing; calculating in the maturity she hopes she’s acquired. Sequences of events dash through her head, coming undone and solving themselves. Is this right? Was anything right? Does she explain where she’s been or how the hell she’s back or give anyone anything resembling closure? Is that her right? Or did it all disappear; die when she did?

But she’s not dead. Obviously not, and she can’t decipher what year it is, and she doesn’t think Nation can either. The moment is visceral and they’re at least halfway terrestrial, so maybe not, maybe not.

She hopes she doesn’t still have debts to pay because right now her hand is pushing itself between Nation’s legs and the words in her ears forsake what neither of them truly believe in. 

She slips into her quietly, the way it was before. 

And she remembers counting Magenta’s breaths until the sun dipped away. One, two, only it’s much less paced now. She remembers the way Nation’s thigh draped over her back and her hands clung on for life at the fabric of her shirt, because it’s exactly the same now. With all the might invested in her by some divine power, maybe, she swears it’s exactly the same.

Nation’s biting her finger so hard that Columbia’s sure she’s drawing blood. With her created rhythm, she rocks forward on her hips and puts Nation’s arm above her head.

Years of oblivion chased away the dream that she’d ever be here again.

And she’s not sure how Nation managed to slip her arm under Columbia’s shoulder and flip her over onto her back, but she did, and now Columbia’s eyes are dropping to her pink glossed lips while they move.

“I held you while you died.”

The blood rushes away from Columbia’s face.

“I started talking to myself. My brother, my brother ran away from me when I felt your veins for a pulse. You were gone, Columbia; your eyes were closed and still. Everything that I am; all that I was meant nothing because I felt guilt. I’d never killed anyone. But I might as well have because it didn’t matter who shot you, I prayed for you like a funeral even though I didn’t believe in a heaven. And I remembered every fucking thing you said to me. I lived the past eight years accepting that I wouldn’t hear you tiptoe through my door or tell me your stories. And in the back of my closet, there’s a sweater that’s not mine because you left it on my floor the first time you got in bed with me. You’d stay sleeping next to me until the morning even though every sorry person to ever fuck me left in minutes. I wondered, Columbia. I wondered why you didn’t hightail it out of there while I took the sheets in my hands and debated whether or not I wanted you gone. There was no debate, Columbia, and you’re still a mystery to me.”

Columbia slips up along the frame of the bed, her knees parted and pressing against Nation’s expiring sides. 

“You never liked sleeping alone”, says Columbia. “And neither did I.”

Nation rolls her head around in defeat before she snaps forward, placing a lengthy kiss on Columbia’s chest. She’s quick, sliding down Columbia’s body to the center of her legs. She can’t help the trembling, or the wait tied up like a knot in the pit of her stomach. Nation starts getting meticulous, in a torturous design to make her wait. She trails her fingers up and down Columbia’s thighs, sending shivers down every inch of her spine. She’d made Nation wait too long to tell her to hurry up, so she waits in crawling anticipation, and the sensation slides across her body like fire. 

The tongue soon enveloping her couldn’t have lessened the desire building in every corner.

She can’t help the cry that escapes her lips, or the hand that’s gripping Nation’s shirt so hard she swears she’s gonna rip it. This pace is agonizing, with Nation stopping every couple seconds to let the causes sink in, to draw them out. But Columbia won’t insist she speed up their time together, not when Nation’s got her arms hooked around her thighs, anchoring them together, and the feeling of her branches its way through her lungs and leaving her heaving for breath.

She feels darkness closing in on the ends of her vision, with such intensity that she can’t predict the proximity of the outcome. 

“Nation”, she gasps.

Nation rolls her eyes upward, locking her eyes in such an intimate gaze that it sends Columbia on an ultimate freefall.

She throws her head back, gripping one of the hands Nation has on her leg. She makes a low, strangled sound with Nation’s name still tumbling over her lips. It rushes over her, through her, and the release is shooting her forward through something she should’ve been familiar with by now, something blissful. 

She hadn’t registered Nation laying her head on the pillow, watching her from the side. Columbia’s chest rises and falls quickly, her breath uneven, her eyes searching for something she doesn’t know in the calculating look in Nation’s eyes.

“I’m so sorry”, Columbia manages.

Nation draws her bottom lip into her mouth for a split second, then drops her eyes down to the sheets between them.

“We’re going to get out of here. We’re gonna leave.”

And feeling the same burning desire to be somewhere, with her dress still pushed up at her hips and her hair falling over Nation’s wrists, she’s happy to go.


End file.
